As the sky changes color from black to a darker-than-blood shade of red, Longclaw opens his silver eyes and stretches his limbs to their full extent. The heavy work, accompanied by the cold has tightened his muscles to the point of suffering. He stands and notices his breath fogging the air. The fire is all but out. Longclaw takes what lumber is left and restokes the fire, taking a few moments to transform the embers and ash into a gentle blaze.

Wrapping himself in a pair of blankets, he crosses the room and goes through the inner door to the porch. The storm has broken sometime during the night, but he cannot make out anything through the iced-over plexiglass. He flips the latch on the outer door and pushes, but is not surprised when the door does not open immediately. He resets himself and shoves hard. The door holds fast for just a moment before giving, groaning its displeasure at the shabby treatment it has recently received. The door surrenders with the unmistakable sound of ice cracking and breaking. The doorway frames a bleak landscape, and a similar outlook for Longclaw. The ice has taken the appearance of dried blood -- mottled and brown, with black vein-like cracks running in all directions.

Longclaw's perceptions of the landscape are enhanced by the memory of the terrain just days ago. The last of the feed grain being harvested -- the stock being loaded on transports, except the few being slaughtered for the migration feast. Now there is no sign of life. No smoke rises from the stone chimneys. There is no movement or sound except the wind.

With all the modern machinery utilized in relocating the village, Longclaw has only a small cart and his strength to get his family to the safety of the warm northern plains. Longclaw's thoughts turn to the cart, and the wheels he knows will be useless on the ice. He immediately finds a solution to turn this inconvenience to his advantage. As he formulates his plan he goes back inside his home.

"Soothesong, how long?"

"Three days for 'Lithe -- seven before the cubs can travel." Longclaw has long ago gotten used to Soothesong's ability to answer questions before he can ask them, making conversations with the aging female seem curt and emotionless.

"Have them ready to go in three hours," Longclaw orders.

"You'll kill them all!" is Soothesong's desperate response.

"The land is covered with ice. It will take longer to traverse the distance to safety than I originally estimated. The weather is clear today. Every hour we wait invites the permanent blizzard of winter. Every kilometer we move northward improves our chance of avoiding a frozen death. Two hundred kilometers may make that difference."

"How do you propose to . . . ," Soothesong trails off as she sees something hidden in Longclaw's eyes. "What have you been hiding?"

"A phaser," is Longclaw's only reply.

Soothesong pauses a moment as she gathers the significance from Longclaw's words. "The power. You can use its energy for propulsion. But we have no power-driven vehicles. I still don't understand."

"Just get them ready. Gather all food and heat producing gear, and place it on the porch. I have work to do." Longclaw pivots and exits the house again. He desperately wants to go in and spend time with his new family, but he knows if any of them are to survive he cannot spare a moment."

Soothesong begins gathering and packing as instructed. She chooses to let the cubs and 'Lithe sleep, knowing that rest is the main thing they all need. She also knows that is the one thing no one will get much of in the next few days.

'Lithe, though, is already awake, stroking her newborn as she ponders names. The largest, mostly yellow kitten nudges the small auburn kit away, trying to horde all of 'Lithe's milk for himself. The red kitten is shoved away several times by his larger sibling, then begins searching for another source of nourishment, his direct assault obviously futile.

"I ought to call you Greedy," 'Lithe purrs, "but I think Pushpaw will do," 'Lithe whispers to the small yellow cub.

The red kitten, in search of food, slips off the low bed, landing unharmed on all fours. Before 'Lithe can reach down and gather him up, he bolts under the blanket curtain, his keen nose seeking the aroma of warming meat broth.

"Soothesong, one of the kittens is loose," 'Lithe calls weakly.

Soothesong puts down her spoon when she hears 'Lithe call, but unable to make out the words, walks briskly from the kitchen to see what 'Lithe wants. The red kitten scampers under a small wooden bench at the sound of Soothesong's approach. Once Soothesong passes, he continues his reconnoiter, breathing in the tempting fumes of meat broth greedily. His instincts serve him well, once in the kitchen, as he realizes almost instantly that the food source is located high above him.

His stomach growls, which he finds disquieting, and decides he must find the source of the enticing smell. He gathers himself and leaps up onto a nearby chair. From there, with some difficulty, he manages to reach the top of a large oaken table. He sniffs experimentally at the empty, smooth marble bowl he finds on the table, and is severely disappointed to find no food. While Soothesong combs the rest of the small house, looking for the misplaced kitten, the auburn adventurer spots the large kettle on the stove across from the table. His instincts tell him that is where he will find nourishment. Creeping up to the edge of the table he tries to estimate the distance between the table and the stove. After several false starts he takes a running leap across the empty space between the table and stove.

Unfortunately, his little legs do not have quite the strength to land him on the top of the large grill. Realizing he is not going to quite make it, the cat reaches out with his claws and snags the large towel hanging on the front of the stove. Then, with quick desperation, he scrambles up the towel onto the lip of the grill. The heat coming through the tightly spaced bars causes him to pause, but the wonderful scent of the meat broth is irresistible.

Placing a paw carefully on one of the long black bars, the red kitten removes it instantly and meows his displeasure, while licking the burned paw. Careful to stay on the bricks lining the front edge of the grill, the cub makes his way to the kettle. He tentatively paws at the large iron pot, and discovers it is also too hot to handle.

Perplexed and frustrated at getting so close to his goal, and having no way to grasp his prize, he moves off the stove onto the counter to its side. He finds the spoon Soothesong left hastily, and is pleased to find a small quantity of the meat broth still in the bowl of the spoon. He moves over to the spoon and begins lapping up the heavenly liquid. Caught up in the joy of attaining his goal, his tail waves unconsciously over the grill as a spark from the fire rises to meet it.

For a moment the red kitten doesn't notice the heat rising in his tail. Upon finishing the small portion of broth in the spoon, though, he detects some new discomfort from behind him. He turns and sees the tip of his tale smoldering. Screaming in fright, the kitten bolts from the counter, unmindful of the long drop to the kitchen floor.

He never reaches the floor as Soothesong catches him deftly in mid-air. She moves quickly to the sink nearby and douses the singed tail, which quiets the screaming cub instantly. He looks up at her as if to say "Thank you," then immediately leaps out of her hands, and makes his way back to the spoon.

Purring at the tiny cat's antics, Soothesong grabs him by the scruff of the neck and returns him to his mother, explaining quickly where she found him.

'Lithe purrs softly at the story, then examines her adventurous cub. "So, you're going to be mischievous, are you? Not willing to wait your turn. I should have known. With a coat like yours, you're sure to stand out in any crowd. Hmmm . . . I think you've named yourself little fellow. From now on, you're Firemane. Meet your brothers, Pushpaw and Wiretail."

She puts Firemane down with the other cubs, making sure this time that all three have access to her milk. Soothesong returns to her other chores after urging 'Lithe to get some rest.

Outside, Longclaw, bundled up as well as he can manage, makes his way around the side of his home and enters the storage area where his cart is. The tarpaulin that covers the entrance is gashed in several places, undoubtedly caused by the ice spicules flying at speeds that made them deadly projectiles. The fact the tarpaulin is still present is surprising to Longclaw. The second tarp covering the cart is dusted with tiny needlelike ice crystals. Longclaw knows the two wheels on the cart will be useless on the ice, but he will need them later. What he needs now are skids.

It takes him fifteen minutes to brake the carts wheels solidly, so there is no chance they will rotate and break the skids he will mount on them. Another twenty minutes, and the holes and fasteners are in place to connect the skids. While Longclaw has been working, he has been pondering and dismissing materials to use for the skids. Time, weight, and strength are his concerns. He finally selects the front and rear doors of the Regent's home. An anachronism in this medieval wasteland, the fiberboard synthetic is both strong and lightweight. Longclaw goes the three hundred yards to the house in a few fleeting, frigid seconds.

He removes the doors carefully and sets them down in the Regent's barren study. He then makes the skids with tooth, claw, and hand-axe. An hour has passed before he is done. Though he longs for some skiers wax, he knows the fiberboard is close to frictionless even without it. These will serve his purpose well enough. After lashing the two skids together, Longclaw makes his way back to his home at a much slower pace than his departure.

By the time he sets the skids down in the storage area, Longclaw is cold and stiff. He goes inside to the warmth offered within his home. Longclaw's spirits warm as he enters the porch, finding an abundance of food supplies and camping gear, neatly and precisely packed, labelled, and ordered for loading. While pleased, he is not surprised. Soothesong's organizational skills rival his own. While this reflects some of the knowledge Soothesong has acquired from the former starship Captain in the time she has known him, Longclaw doesn't doubt she could get a pack of rampaging Tzerelos to form a choir and dance, given enough time.

The house is almost stiflingly hot to Longclaw as he enters, though were it not for the hostile conditions outside he would probably find the temperature uncomfortably cold. It seems deserted. The blankets still hang around the delivery room hiding the others. Longclaw unwraps himself and warms his fur in front of the fire. He notices the wood pile is exhausted. The wood burning now is already reaching the end of its usefulness as fuel. Longclaw turns, grabs the chair at the near end of the table and slams it violently against the stone wall. It splinters instantly -- pieces flying in several directions. As he calmly gathers the pieces, Soothesong emerges to ask, "Have you lost your mind?!"

"Firewood," Longclaw says evenly, as he gathers the last fragment of the former chair. He tosses most of the fuel into the fire, then turns and faces Soothesong. "When this has burned, I suggest you use the table."

Soothesong just nods, though she sees worry, impatience, and frustration in Longclaw's eyes.

"We leave soon." Longclaw turns, snatching his garments and donning them in a military dance of swift efficiency, and exits.

In the shed again, 'Claw continues his work. He secures the skids to the cart quickly. Next, he mounts a mast with canvas sail. Finally, he takes the motor for the curing fan from the bulk barn and mounts it to the rear of the cart. Having previously finished most of the modifications to the cart, it does not taken him long to finish the task.

He will power the cart with his phaser's energy as needed, but more importantly he installs a small space heater in the floor, which the pistol will also energize. Without the artificial heat source, he knows the trip would be certain death.

The wind is light today and from the north. This is both good and bad. The air is warmer, by degrees, but they will have to fight it as they travel. It also means the chance of a storm catching them is less. Longclaw prays silently that they will have the time they need to escape an icy death.

Barely an hour later, 'Lithe, Soothesong, and the three cubs huddle together in the cart Longclaw has just finished. The thin, black synthetic tarpoline covering the forward half of the transport shields all from the wind, arranged to redirect the wind around the small craft. Though the tarp soaks up the suns warmth and radiates it inward, the temperature seems to drop, even as the sun reaches its highest point, though this is barely over the horizon. The females and cubs huddle together, layers of fur and leather pulled tightly around them.

"This vehicle of yours is amazing, 'Claw," Laurrrlithe marvels. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Speak Federation Standard," Longclaw quips, bringing the familiar joyful purr from 'Lithe at his standard reply to the question.

Longclaw circles the cart one last time, checking for any oversight in his hastily assembled ice-skier. Seeing no obvious flaws in his design, 'Claw raises the canvas sail, releases the brake, places his massive claws on the rear of the cart and begins pushing their transport, doing what he can to assist the wind. Thus, the family begin their journey to safety.

Because the wind blows against them, progress is slow. Longclaw is forced to tack back and forth constantly to gain small amounts of distance toward their goal. As night falls, the ice-skier continues moving through the numbing cold. The weather, though frigid, is uncharacteristically clear. Longclaw knows he cannot let this opportunity pass. He fears that the next storm may last until next season.

It is night as the skier approaches the next deserted village, which is the last between them and the northern settlements. The cold has become dangerous, even for the heavily covered Kzinti. While the others have stayed covered, Longclaw has spent much of the trip exposed to the wind in order to navigate. He is shivering uncontrollably as he steers the skier through the darkness toward one of the dark shapes his exceptional night vision can make out, with the aid of the light from only a clawful of stars. Longclaw drops the sail, and the skier glides to a halt just three meters from the building. No words are spoken as the cats move quickly through the door into the abandoned structure.

Longclaw lights the single lantern they have brought and leads his family through the spacious dining area, back into a large kitchen. The building he has chosen serves as a community meeting place. There is still much wood, and a fair supply of coal. Longclaw sees to the fire as 'Lithe and Soothesong tend to the kittens.

Firemane is the liveliest of the three, actively nuzzling up to 'Lithe with a surprising vigor for one so young. The other cubs are not well. The largest cub, Pushpaw, shivers uncontrollably, while Wiretail lies on his side, eyes closed, breathing heavily, and sneezing occasionally.

The kitchen warms much quicker than one would imagine as Soothesong begins preparing some beef broth for all. 'Lithe lies on a hastily constructed cot. Soothesong turns to Longclaw and speaks, "Been a long while since I was surprised, 'Claw. You surprised me today. I forgot how I hate surprises."

Longclaw grins for the first time today at Soothesong's consternation over how he has kept the secret of his hidden energy pistol from her. "I've kept the secret ever since I got here, Soothesong. I did not even tell 'Lithe, though she managed to find out by her own means. The important thing is we have the power supply, and maybe it will be enough to get us past the mountains."

"Still, I don't like surprises -- even good ones."

"Understood. But for now you must serve your broth, which I think is burning."

Soothesong quickly wheels around and finds the broth is just getting warm. She slowly turns back to Longclaw and sees the flick of his ears and glint of humor in his eyes. As she scowls, 'Claw winks at her and says, "Just twisting your tail." He goes to 'Lithe while Soothesong grumbles at the pot of broth.

Longclaw strokes 'Lithe's head, and her eyes open, looking up at him with crystal clear blue orbs that penetrate his heart. "Are we going to make it, 'Claw?" she asks in a whisper that contains no worry, but great fatigue.

"Of course we will. Just a few hours rest, and we'll be on our way to the balmy north."

"Don't lie to me 'Claw. I can tell even if Soothesong cannot."

The smile disappears from 'Claws eyes as he looks at his fragile mate. "We have a chance, 'Lithe. A small chance at best. The barometer is dropping, so we may be in a blizzard by midday. Our one chance is to run like the lightning and hope we survive long enough to outdistance the storm. Get some sleep. I doubt if you'll get any more for awhile."

"You'll find a way, 'Claw. You always do."

Longclaw smiles and strokes the three cubs, though Firemane, being the most active, gets most of his attention. "I understand you're an inquisitive cat," he says, playfully tussling with his small son. "This is good. I think I will tell you all a story my father told me when I was young."

Longclaw tells a proverb of three young Kzinti warriors on their first hunt alone. One, a timid, cautious follower. The second, a brash, daring, impatient leader. The third, a curious, but unafraid watcher. As the story progresses the follower is killed when he falls behind the others. The leader gets more and more frustrated as he is unable to successfully catch anything, rushing forward too quickly each time, giving their prey time to react and escape. However, the third cat, learns from each of the others failures and manages to catch a small elk by himself. The leader is so infuriated he attacks the watcher, who, having expected this, easily defeats his unsubtle attacker and returns home with the elk and the tale of what happened.

"The lesson you must learn from this is that to get anything in this universe, you must go and take it. No one is going to protect or provide for you without expecting something in return. However, you must also be smart enough to learn from your mistakes and analyze your prey before striking. You see, it was curiosity that saved the cat."

Soothesong arrives moments after the story is finished with warm broth for all. They eat in silence and then go to sleep. Soothesong dreams of a frozen death on the tundra, though she does not mention it when they wake.

***

More than a full day after the battle in the Tempest, the White Dwarf is still being administered to by the technological physicians of her engineering staff. She is badly beaten and bruised, and in desperate need of recuperative time in space-dock. Even with Rushwind wielding the scalpel to perform the surgery on the battered ship, she is in grave condition as she hobbles homeward.

Every extra circuit, chip, and unessential console has been dismantled to repair those deemed necessary. Now, with all spare parts and cannibalized parts installed, the repair efforts begin to slack off as some crew members are granted time off to rest.

The horrid work of recovering the dead from the rubble begins in earnest. Rushwind oversees the salvage of the bridge himself -- standing by stoically as the remains of his protege and friend are removed. He offers up a silent prayer to his God to curse the Lyrans who survived their battle. Let them bear no fruit to sustain their accursed race. Let them live long in pain, humiliation and cowardice. Do not grant them a swift brave end, but let them live in misery, long enough to see their race defeated, humiliated, and subjugated.

Even as he finishes the prayer, he knows that they are only words of anger, which do not reflect what he feels. What he truly wishes he cannot even think, so far it is from the mind-set of his species. Thoughts which he only once had the courage to turn into words. Words he said to another friend -- another friend almost certainly dead now. For what he truly desires is peace -- even with the Lyrans, if it will end the senseless killing of a century.

Rushwind recalls his talk with Longclaw -- when 'Claw told him of his contact with the Humans. How he learned of their history -- how they fought and warred amongst themselves for millenia -- faction against faction, taking each others lives with the same calm with which any Kzin would kill a Wheltmouse. Killing another of one's own species -- how barbarous. As barbaric as the Kzin Civil War -- though he believes fighting among ones own kind would be the least civil, if any type of war could actually be called civil.

But what of the Lyrans? Is killing Lyrans really all that different? The physical similarities are so remarkable that the Terrans group the Kzinti and Lyrans together under the same species -- Fellian. But regardless of his own philosophy, he knows to utter a word of such blasphemy would be grounds for death -- no matter how many Lyran ships and lives he has destroyed. The thought of killing those who killed Jumper appeals to him, but the thrill of killing 'The Enemy' is gone -- leaving only an emptiness in his heart and an acid taste on his tounge.

With physical and emotional fatigue upon him, Rushwind puts the Chief Engineer in command and returns to his quarters, or what is left of them. After physically pulling the door from its ruptured frame, he is surprised to find his room reasonably intact, since over half of the crew quarters were destroyed during combat. His bed is still in one piece, though pieces of deck plate and plastaform lie on top of it. Rushwind clears the debris and quickly seeks the escape of sleep. The nightmare of reality invades his dreams, though, and he gets little rest.

A few hours later he awakens and returns to Auxiliary Control.

"Captain, I was just about to send for you," Charger says as Rushwind enters the room.

"Status report."

"We've just been hailed by the repair base, sir. They're probably waiting for our I.D. code right now. Subspace is out and standard comm is still only half operational. Receiving is fine, but the transmitter is still sporadic."

"Slow to approach speed. Keep trying to raise them. Launch a log buoy. Its transmitter should be enough to let them know who we are. Being finished off by our own fleet would be a dubious way to exit. If they don't respond to the log buoy, use the running lights."

With only a single warning shot fired across her bow before she is recognized, the White Dwarf pulls into orbit around the base, and those on the station with a view are shocked at the Command ship's condition. The hull is scarred and torn in many places, vividly hinting at the battle she has returned from. Both wing mounts are missing, having been jettisoned during the journey home. All wait to hear the details of combat, while many wait to see the casualty list for friends and family. Those who have followed Rushwind's career closely are aware that no ship of his has ever been so thoroughly damaged. These same people fear for their empire, thinking if this has happened to their fleet's finest, how bad are things going elsewhere?

Once docked, Rushwind goes directly to the office of the base Commander. The secretary waves the Captain into the Director's office. As the door closes behind him, Rushwind is surprised to find the black and gold striped form of Admiral Goldpaw seated beside the Commander. Snapping to attention, Rushwind stops and salutes his superior.

"Captain Rushwind, at ease," the Admiral immediately speaks, his gold colored right paw mirroring Rushwind's salute. "Your ship seems to have sustained some minor damage. A brief report might be in order."

"Yes sir. I have the battle-tape here for you. Our comm system is out, so I was going to have the director send it ASAP." Rushwind hands the tiny square to the Admiral as he speaks. "Three Lyran ships, cruiser, destroyer and frigate, jumped us well inside the current battle lines."

The base Commander blanches at this comment and cannot help from sputtering, "Three Lyrans?!"

"Yes. I led them into the Tempest, which evened things up a bit."

"Commander, if you will excuse us." The Admiral purrs cordially as he nods toward the door, in effect throwing the cat out of his own office.

With no protest, the Commander leaves, shaking his head and mumbling, "Three on one in the Tempest?"

"Windy, good to see you. We received your initial communication, but didn't have a ship to send with less than three days travel."

"I figured as much. I'm lucky to be able to see you."

"Sounds like it. Of course you know that winning a three on one battle is bound to help your already fantastic reputation."

"I suppose."

"What's wrong? You sound . . . tired. Were you injured?"

"No. I'm fine. But I am tired. I'm tired of this war, Goldi. This war has been going on for generations, and nothing has really changed. Nothing is being accomplished other than population control!" Rushwind pauses for breath as his claws begin to show.

"Who was it this time?"

"It was half my damned crew!" Rushwind shouts. There is silence for a moment before he continues in a much gentler tone, "Jumper."

"Damn," the Admiral curses, "He was a good one, wasn't he?"

"Better than I was at that age. He was on the bridge. I was in Auxiliary Control. I should have sent him down to . . . "

"And what if that had been destroyed instead?" Goldpaw interrupts.

Rushwind answers with silence.

"Your ship is out of action for awhile. You know you're eligible for recoup time. Do you want it?"

Rushwind has heard this question six times in his career. Each time he has answered with the question, "Do you have a slot I can fill tomorrow? I want a chance to get even." This time he answers differently. "Yes. I may need the break. I don't know if I'm going to be ready to go back out there for some time, Goldi."

Now visibly concerned, Goldpaw asks his friend, "This one really shook you, didn't it?"

"If it weren't for the war, I might have already decided to ship out. I was thinking that once Jumper was up to speed, I might request a transfer to The Institute, anyway."

"A professor, huh? You always have been good at imparting your knowledge to others. Every Exec you've trained has gone on to become a sterling Captain in time. But you know as well as I that no one in the fleet can match you tactically out there where it counts, my friend."

"I want out, Goldi. I'm not as sharp as I used to be, and maybe that cost some lives this time. It may cost us more if I go out again. I'm tired of writing letters to fleet command on how many dead kittens they can delete from active duty."

The Admiral looks closely at his best combat Captain and wonders what will happen if he does send him out again. He notices, through the office window, the scarred hull of the White Dwarf, as technicians begin removing the remnants of the right warp engine.

"All right. I'm going to pull you off the line for now. The Fates know you've earned the time. Take some time to get your head together, and if you come to your senses we'll put you back on the Dwarf as soon as she's ready. But The Institute is in mid-year now, so there won't be any slots available there for awhile. We are still at war, so if I pull you off line I have to find a slot where you can be useful."

"Fair enough. What type of assignment do you have in mind?" The Admiral considers this carefully for several minutes, using the Base Commander's terminal to link with a few files on his computer back at Central Command. He scrolls through a list of divisions and operations needing additional personnel, though no indication is given as to what any of the operations or jobs might be. As he eyes the data he begins nodding his head. "Computer, off," he says returning his attention to Rushwind.

"Have you ever considered joining the intelligence community?"

"Espionage?! You can't be serious. I'm practically an icon."

"It isn't what you think," the Admiral waves off Rushwind's protestations. "I've been working on a concept to surprise and frighten the Lyrans into ending this war. Only a few others know about the plan currently. See that list on the far wall?"

Rushwind gives the chart a cursory glance. "Yes. It's ships lost in combat during the past two years."

"It also includes a couple of ships NOT lost. We actually have salvaged three of those ships -- two frigates and a CS."

"If you have them, why haven't they been repaired and put back on line?"

"Timing, my friend. We all know how superstitious their lot is. We are going to put together a 'ghost' fleet to surprise them, give their logisticians fits, scare the piss out of them, and destroy their morale if we're lucky."

"A 'ghost' fleet?" Rushwind asks dubiously.

"Yes. Our first problem has been finding ships that survive combat that the Lyrans have listed as destroyed. Luckily, we have some operatives in place who can give us fairly accurate lists of enemy kills."

Rushwind purrs, "The White Dwarf will probably qualify. They left us as we were falling toward a black hole."

"Fantastic! It's just the type of situation we need, and it adds a command vessel to lead the fleet. Our main problem, though, is security. Normally they list a ship as destroyed, and then a few weeks later one of their spies sees it at a repair facility and it eventually gets back to their HQ and the list is updated. The Lyrans have as many spies in our space as we have in theirs, and that's quite a bit, believe you me.

"So, what we're trying to do is keep all critically injurred ship I.D.'s confidential. If a ship shows up on their list of kills we place it at a standard repair facility. If it doesn't, we transfer it to the 'ghost' fleet. The problem with security is that after a cat's been in the branch for awhile, he thinks just like all the others. Patterns develop that are obvious to anyone in the espionage business, so sometimes we throw in an amateur to create some randomness in our covert operations."

"And I'm the amateur?"

"If you want it."

Rushwind looks at the battered hulk of his ship. "Okay. I'm in."

"Fine. Your first assignment is to figure a way to convince the Lyrans that you and the White Dwarf are dead, despite the reports of your victorious return that are bound to show up in the news."

Rushwind pauses for a moment, pondering the solution. After a few seconds he responds. "Easy. We just try hard to convince them I am alive. Get a look-alike to go on a morale tour, with some small flaw built in to allow the Lyrans to confirm he's an imposter. They'll bend over backwards destroying the double's credibility to boost the morale of their own forces. And what would you conclude if old 'shell-mouth' Rushwind suddenly goes on a PR blizt while White Dwarf vanishes?"

The Admiral considers this for only a moment. "That it's a bluff to confuse them, and embarrass their Captains. Brilliant! I think this may work out well after all. You are now officially a part of operation Phoenix."

***

Longclaw stirs first, awakened by the wind whistling through the iron smelting flue behind the building. He goes to the back door and peers out. Though the temperature has risen considerably during the night, the wind is howling and the sky is overcast. He throws some fuel on the fire and begins gathering their things to go on the cart. When all is ready he wakes the others.

Little is said as the others prepare to go. Longclaw loads everything onto the skier and comes back inside one last time to get the others. Outside, a light snow begins to fall. He is greeted by Laurrrlithe holding a cup of steaming broth. He smiles with his eyes and drinks the sustenance quickly. "I'm getting tired of this tepid soup," he says, "What I wouldn't give for a nice, juicy, steak."

After the quick meal, they swiftly board the skier, and begin moving toward warmer weather. The wind is at their back, which means they will make good time. It also allows the storm to overtake them only a few hours after leaving the cozy kitchen. 'Claw fights to keep the skier under control as the gusts move upwards to gale force. The plain they are on when the storm engulfs them is smooth and well iced for quite a distance. This enables 'Claw to fly blind for awhile at the break-neck speed the winds drive them.

'Lithe and Soothesong do what they can to keep the cubs covered and warm without suffocating them. Wiretail's amber striped fur is falling out in patches, however, and they both know the kitten has J'trraelisia, a disease not uncommon with newborn on ice planets. Pushpaw has regained some of his strength during their brief stop. But with the continued exposure to the sub-zero temperatures of Hell's Marble, he begins to shiver violently once again. Firemane is only slightly less effected by the cold, The Fates having seen fit to make his coat exceptionally thick in compensation for his lower than average bulk. Trying to keep the cubs and 'Lithe protected, Soothesong exposes herself repeatedly to the harsh, life-stealing wind that propels them.

As the skier hurtles toward the wooded, hilly terrain ahead, visibility grows steadily worse. Finally, Longclaw lowers the sail, amazed that the mast has not broken in half already. The skier begins decelerating, but even without the sail, the wind continues to shove the skier forward toward unseen obstacles.

'Claw strains to see some shadow or outline through his goggles, but the white wall of snow is all he sees. Using every ounce of training, knowledge and intuition he has, he feels they should be nearing the forest. Still seeing no hint of the end of the open plain 'Claw begins slowly nudging the brake on the skier. The brake is nothing more than a metal rod that drags against the ground when the handle is pulled. It is only slightly more effective than dragging a claw. Convinced that he must have reached the forest, or that he is far off course Longclaw pulls the brake a little more. None of them sees what they hit.

The right ski raises slightly before the right side of the cart slams into the tree. The cart continues forward and yaws leftward, reaching a forty-five degree angle as it slides several meters on the left skid, hanging there as if trying to decide which way to fall.

Longclaw desperately tries to climb toward the high side of the cart to prevent a spill, but is too late. The cart continues falling and spills over onto its left side. The top half of the mast snaps off instantly. The remaining piece of mast digs into the ice and the cart swings around like a ball on a string, before coming to a stop inches from another tree.

Longclaw is thrown from the cart, using instincts going back millions of years to land and roll to a stop in the white powder unharmed. Unfortunately all do not escape unharmed. Pushpaw lies totally still -- his neck broken during the crash. Soothesong finds the cub and cradles it to her chest as her eyes glaze from the sting of snow on her face. She knows now that her skin is frozen beneath her coat already, and has to fight the urge to lick herself where she aches.

Longclaw scrambles to his feet and calls out above the roar of the storm, "Is everyone all right?"

Soothesong whispers, "No," but the word is lost in the wind. 'Lithe gathers Firemane and Wiretail in her arms, and frantically searches for her other. She sees the shadow of Soothesong and moves to her. Soothesong turns around and 'Lithe knows what has happened.

As the two cats huddle together in the blizzard consoling one another, 'Claw finds them and sees the limp form of one of his sons. His eyes close for a moment, and when they open there is no feeling in them -- only an unbending will and determination.

"Get behind that tree," he shouts, "There's more protection from the wind."

As the others move away from the skier, Longclaw examines the wreck. The forward half of the right ski support is gone -- broken off when they struck the tree. He tries to think of something strong enough to use as a strut. The only metal they have is the brake. He knows they will not survive long unless they get moving. He pulls the phaser from the wreckage and quickly slices off about half a meter of lead pipe. He does a hasty repair job on the right skid and then goes to the others. All are shivering except his dead son, who 'Lithe holds tightly to herself, rocking back and forth.

"We must keep moving. I need your help to right the sled."

"He's dead 'Claw," 'Lithe says quietly.

Longclaw takes his mate by the shoulders and says, "We must fight to save the others 'Lithe. We must leave him."

"I'm not going to dump my son in the snow. I won't!"

"The ground is frozen. We can't bury him, and with the storm we can't burn him either. We also can't stay here. We must get moving."

"I won't go."

Longclaw knows they are wasting time so he concedes. "O.k., we'll take him with us." He prays that once the shock passes, 'Lithe will come to her senses.

The cats move through the blizzard to the cart and manage to roll it back onto its skis. Many of their supplies are strewn about between the tree they hit and the spot the skier sits in. Some of these are already hidden by the accumulating snow. Longclaw hastily grabs those things he can make out through the snow and tosses them onto the cart. Then he beckons 'Lithe and Soothesong to help him get their sled moving.

As soon as the cart starts inching forward he motions for 'Lithe to climb in with the kittens. He tosses her the phaser, so she can reactivate the space heater, while he and Soothesong continue to push the sled down the gently sloping terrain. 'Lithe starts the heater and begins scraping snow out of the cart and steers around the trees.

The forest offers moderate shielding from the raging storm, but only enough to improve visibility slightly. The slope eases the burden on Soothesong and Longclaw, which is why 'Claw does not use the motor on the back of their vehicle. He knows he must ration the phaser's energy carefully. On some slopes he and Soothesong can jump onto the skids and let gravity pull them along. These respites are enough to keep them going for several hours. They finally reach the far edge of the woods.

With only half a mast, the tarpaulin is of little use as a sail. 'Claw had hoped to forego using the motor until they reached the mountain range, still some kilometers distant. Soothesong is spent, breathing heavily, and occasionally coughing and sneezing. 'Claw makes his decision.

"Get in Soothesong. I'm going to use the motor."

"No 'Claw. I stop here. Take (gasp) the family and go. Don't protest! I'll die here or later (cough) no matter. The motor must wait if you (wheeze) are to survive. Save 'Lithe and the kittens, 'Claw."

Longclaw looks at the cat closely with even greater respect. As much as he wants to save her, he knows she is right. "Say goodbye to 'Lithe and the kittens," he says.

As Soothesong talks to 'Lithe, 'Claw cuts the tarpaulin and erects a half sail. It will not be enough by itself to pull the cart, the supplies, the kittens, 'Lithe, and himself, but it will help. When he is done, he finds Soothesong standing beside him with the dead kitten. She says nothing, but both know nothing need be said. Longclaw does not ask how she convinced 'Lithe to leave the kitten.

Instead he turns and raises the half sail and begins pushing the skier out of the cover offered by the trees around them. 'Lithe looks back at her friend and her dead son as the blizzard swallows them. For several minutes she continues looking back, imagining she still sees the form of Soothesong -- and Pushpaw.

The skier picks up speed surprisingly fast until Longclaw is almost running. He jumps onto the left skid and rides along as the sled decelerates, and then repeats the process. 'Lithe huddles her two remaining kittens to her as she curls up in the cart, trying to stay out of the wind. The storm shows no sign of easing.

By the time the sled traverses the distance to the mountains, Longclaw is exhausted. He knows they must stop and rest before cutting through the only travelled pass to the north -- and he knows where. Even in the blizzard his incredible sense of direction takes them within two hundred meters of the cave he seeks. He is more cautious this time, and makes sure to halt the cart short of his objective. He then parks the skier behind an outcropping of rocks, somewhat protected from the elements. He and 'Lithe climb up to the cave with the kittens. 'Claw hacks through the ice and frozen snow that blocks the shelter, and they enter.

The cave cuts deep into the mountain and has plenty of room. 'Claw lights their lantern and then sets up the space heater. The family huddles together and sleeps around the tiny spot of warmth. The storm continues to rage on as unconsciousness engulfs them.

Longclaw awakens to the sound of silence. The blizzard has broken. This good news is squashed by the discovery that during the night another kitten has died -- Wiretail. There are tears and a hasty burial on the spot their fire had been. Then the three remaining Kzinti return to the skier.

The sky is overcast, but there is little wind. Longclaw wonders if he could have saved Soothesong and berates himself for not having an answer. After the cart is uncovered, 'Claw digs a track from the cart back onto the trail. The rolling terrain of the pass slows their progress greatly, but they continue on, hoping the weather will hold. They stop and eat the almost frozen meat they have with them. 'Claw melts snow for water, while 'Lithe chews some meat up to soften and warm it for Firemane to supplement her milk.

'Claw uses the motor to assist him in navigating over and around the large snowdrifts the storm has left. Three days pass before they reach the other side of the mountain range. The weather holds, and the family escapes northward -- away from the white death of winter behind them. The phaser's power pack is long since depleted, and the motor is discarded.

The three cats continue northward, protected from the storms behind by the mountains that lift the clouds upward until they are forced to dump their load. The ice disappears, as do the skids. Longclaw uses one as an extension for his mast, and adds skins and furs to his sail as the temperature permits. The sail catches just enough wind to help the cart roll along at a slow even pace.

The three reach the northern settlements several days later without further harm. The Regent is disappointed to find Longclaw still alive, though the other tenants of Hell's Marble are overjoyed at the unexpected news. All marvel at the frisky, red cub that has joined their community. They also marvel at Longclaw's tale of their journey from the southern reaches, though he carefully edits out the existence of his phaser. After the initial excitement over their reappearance, things return to normal as the harvest of ores from the savage planet resumes. Life as it is continues on Hell's Marble -- as does the war.

***

"Opinions, gentle cats?"

Three tails twitch nervously, as their whiskered faces turn away from the Lyran Military Supreme Commander to each other. It is Intelligence Analyst Ringrider who speaks first.

The tiger-striped Lieutenant Commander clears his throat and begins, "Sir, the mission recorders all point to the conclusion that the White Dwarf was indeed destroyed during its combat with the Enchanter. Though no explosion was noted, sensors indicated a sizable power drop within the enemy ship prior to Rushwind's bluffed surrender. Given the condition of the Enchanter and the instability of the black hole itself, the decision to withdraw was warranted, if unfortunate."

"But we have a long standing rule that no kill is to be confirmed without irrefutable visual or sensor data to support that conclusion!" Commodore Fastpath argues, pounding his soot black paw on the marble conference table. "All we really have is evidence that after the Enchanter lost visual and sensor contact, the White Dwarf was transmitting a distress call, which ended abruptly. Power levels can be altered -- transmissions can be cut off -- the final minutes of contact could have all been a ruse by Rushwind to . . . "

"That is all true, Commodore," the Minister of Propaganda interrupts, smoothing the yellow fur of his brow. He stretches lazily as he speaks. "Under normal circumstances we would just label the White Dwarf as an unconfirmed kill, wait six months to see if it shows up at space dock, and if not, then release the news." He leans forward taking a more serious pose. "However, this is not some meaningless frigate we're talking about. This is Rushwind and Dwarf -- the best our enemies have to offer. Rushwind has been a thorn in our side for the last decade, ever since he defeated Thunderheart. The effect his death would have on our forces morale could be fantastic! But we must know for certain before we commit. If we issue a statement that he has been destroyed and he shows up next week attacking a perimeter base -- not only do we look like fools, he looks like an indestructable god. Such a revelation could be more devastating to our war efforts than a direct assault by the Kzinti on our home worlds."

Commodore Fastpath howls in agreement, "Exactly! We can't issue any report, because there is no way to confirm a kill of a ship falling into a black hole. There is no debris -- no explosion, and our own scientists have postulated that black holes may be gateways to other dimensions, so even if the White Dwarf did fall into it, it is conceivable he could find a way back eventually."

"Yes, yes, yes," the Minister purrs irritably. "But we have lost many ships, including science vessels into black holes, and not one has ever come back. If we can confirm it fell into a black hole, we can issue a statement to that effect. But we must be certain . . . "

The Supreme Commander rises abruptly, his muscular frame only hinting at the power of the tawny Lyran leader. His voice is deep and gruff, and leaves no doubt as to his dispostion. "I don't want to spend the next six months waiting for a report to come in from our operatives at the Kzinti repair facilities. I want an answer soon!" he roars, turning his back on the others.

Intelligence Analyst Ringrider clears his throat causing the Supreme Commander to turn around. "If the White Dwarf survived, we may be able to confirm within the next month, sir," he says.

"Go on."

"For security reasons you are certainly aware of, Commander, I am not at liberty to give details," Ringrider says casting a casual glance across everyone else in the room. However, we know that White Dwarf was severely damaged, even if she did survive. We also know the standard procedures for repair and refit of crippled ships the Kzinti employ. Movement of certain materials can be traced and . . . "

Ringrider pauses, choosing his words carefully, so no clue as to how the information is obtained can be garnered from his statements. ". . . I feel there is an excellent chance that if the ship did survive we can confirm its existence. However, to maintain security for our deep cover operatives, this will take at least a month."

"Hah," Commodore Fastpath scoffs, "the White Dwarf has been crippled six times and it has never taken more than a month to get her back in action. She gets highest priority because of her successes. For some other ship hurt as badly, it might be taken out for three to five months, but not White Dwarf. If the ship doesn't show up in a month, it will not take any Intelligence Analyst to figure out the ship was destroyed."

"You raise a valid point, Commodore," the Supreme Commander notes calmly, retaking his seat. "Ringrider, you go ahead and gather your data, and let me know if you uncover anything in the next month. However, Commodore Fastpath is correct. If White Dwarf doesn't show up in the next month it is to be assumed destroyed and the appropriate announcements will go out at that time. Dismissed."

As the others get up to leave, the Supreme Commander motions Ringrider to wait. When the others are gone the Supreme Commander says matter-of-factly, "So, you had a spy on board White Dwarf?"

"How did you . . . " Ringrider sputters in shock.

"I didn't until just now." Seeing the worry in the Analyst's eyes, the Commander purrs, "Don't worry. The others don't have a clue. Your explanation about repair requisitions and material transfers was an excellent cover. But I am well versed in Covert Operations. I take it from your time frame that you don't expect to receive a report from this operative for another month."

"No sir."

"And with the damage sustained by the Dwarf, your operative might have been killed."

"Very true, sir," the Analyst nods. "However, death notices go out to family within two weeks," Ringrider smiles.

"I understand your need to conceal your sources, but it might help our discussing this topic in the future if we had a code name to refer to this operative by."

"Yes, sir," Ringrider considers this for a moment, "How about . . . Windbreaker?"

The Supreme Commander smiles. "Excellent. Let me know if you hear from Windbreaker. We will proceed with the announcements and propaganda based on what I told the Minister and Commodore. If our actions changed at this point it could endanger your source."

Ringrider relaxes for the first time, realizing the Supreme Commander really understands how difficult it is to place an operative and how easily they can be discovered if their information is used too freely. "Thank you, sir."

"Sir, one question, though. While the Commodore is correct about the history of White Dwarf returning to combat so quickly, what do we do if we learn Rushwind did survive, but the ship doesn't return to action?"

The Supreme Commander purrs, "In that unlikely instance, we would have to assume the Kzinti were up to something -- probably something big. Therefore, we'd have to act like we knew nothing until the time was right."

Ringrider flicks his ears in joy. "Exactly, sir. You really do understand the game well."

"Of course, Lieutenant Commander, I have to."

"Yes, sir." Ringrider pauses, gathering courage to broach a new subject. "Sir, I have been mulling over an idea that may help us defeat the Kzinti in our lifetime."

The Supreme Commander's demeanor changes immediately at this revalation. "I'm all ears," he says with a flick of them to emphasize the point.

"It would involve covert operations on every level as well as a few directives for the military branch regarding rules of engagement."

"Sounds grandiose. Won't that make secrecy all but impossible?"

"Not really, sir. None of the branches need to know what any of the others are doing. The covert side has a built-in red herring, so the Kzinti will be making the wrong assumptions, and operationally, only you and I would need to know the actual scope and goal of the plan."

"I'm intrigued. What do you call this plan?"

"Operation Headhunter."

***